It’s 7:45 AM on a cold Saturday in March 2015. The bus carrying me and forty of my classmates pulls up to Portage Central High School and we unload, some of us grabbing stools and stage boxes, others grabbing easels with foam core boards under our arms. The breakfast I ate before arriving twists in my stomach as I feel nerves settling in. We all head into the building, where we find other high schoolers dressed similarly: chatting, performing to walls, and getting a lay of the building. These are the regular sights and sounds of a Forensics tournament, where students from across Michigan’s west side compete in various public speaking categories individually or in groups, and it’s where I’m going to spend my Saturday.
It’s 7:45 AM on a cold Saturday in March 2025 as I pull into the parking lot of Portage Central High School. I grab my backpack containing my laptop and a set of index cards numbered one to fifteen, and walk into the building, where I am greeted by familiar sights of high schoolers performing to walls, talking with coaches, and hyping up each other. I check in with the tournament organizers, and stop by the judge’s lounge before the day starts. I grab a bagel and some orange juice for breakfast and hunker down until the tournament starts. It’s much more pleasant to spend a Saturday here without the competition jitters.
After the general meeting, I walk into my first round, and the judge smiles at me. “Good morning everyone,” she begins once we’ve all entered, “Can someone remind me the time limit on this event?” “Five to eight minutes,” I respond, before thinking to myself, Oh good, she’s unfamiliar with this event and doesn’t know how to judge it. As my peers perform their speeches, I pay attention, mentally noting who’s had memory slip ups and how I measure up. I wish I could judge, I think between speeches, It seems much less stressful than competing.
Judging is stressful, I think as the first competitor begins their piece. Between keeping track of their content, how they’re presenting it, and making sure I’m giving accurate time signals, there’s so much to pay attention to, and my notes look more like bullet points than actionable critique as I follow along. Before the round started, the room was eerily quiet as the students sat waiting for me to get ready, so I tried to lighten the mood and make everyone feel welcome. They all take this so seriously, too seriously from my perspective now ten years removed. Everyone claps as the student’s speech ends, and I finish up my notes before turning to the next performer.
In my semis round I have a judge who has seen my piece before. He had some nice compliments the last time he saw me, but suggested some specific changes that would have meant re-memorizing my piece again, which I didn’t want to do. I present the same speech he’s seen before, and when I get my critiques, I see the same comment under things to improve.
In the finals round I judge I have a competitor I’ve already seen this season. As he begins his poetry program about toxic masculinity, wearing a hot pink tie, I notice he’s followed one of my suggestions: his nails are painted white with a pink accent. I feel proud that he’s followed my advice; that I was able to help him refine his presentation to something better. I make sure to make an excited comment that he followed my advice on his critiques.
After the last round ends, I pack up my visuals and check in with my friends to see how their days have gone. We file into the auditorium for awards, which are delayed (as they are every week). The finalists for each category all file onto the stage together, and I clap once along with everyone else as each name is read out before applauding the winner in each category. Winning schools are announced, and we all file back onto the bus for the drive home, singing “Bohemian Rhapsody” as we arrive.
Once I finish my final round, I don’t stick around for awards. I don’t know most of the competitors, and I’m eager to eat something and crash after a day working harder than all but the worst days at my actual job. I rush home and do my best to reformat my critiques from bullet points into comments that make sense to competitors and judges before the results go out to them at 8pm. I try to phrase everything constructively and offer suggestions when I comment negatively. High schoolers are already going through the worst time of their lives; they don’t need me pouring fuel on the fire. If some of them grow because of my advice, it’s worth it.
!!!!!!!!!!
As someone who competed in forensics in high school and went on to get a writing and art double major, I used to joke that I majored in receiving constructive criticism. Thank you for being the kind of person who uses that format of feedback to build up! Those students will remember that–I always did!